


Through The Seventh Hall

by Trash_Queen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dean Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, OWLS! OWLS EVERYWHERE!, Other, computers are evil and cannot be trusted, heavily based on netflix's "Maniac" but theyre not in a drug trial, kind of an alternate season idea?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:07:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash_Queen/pseuds/Trash_Queen
Summary: Hypothesis: All the worlds that almost were matter just as much as the one we’re in.Corollary: These hidden worlds cause us great pain.Dean Smith is a mechanic in Pittsburgh, PA, whose reality is, seemingly, rapidly crumbling around him.Sam Wesson is a long range sensor tech on the Discovery Six spacecraft whose reality is, apparently, reaching its' limits.The impala was never, just, an impala.
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue: Hypothesis

>Hypothesis: All souls are on a quest to connect.

>Corollary: Our minds have no awareness of this quest.

>Hypothesis: All the worlds that almost were matter just as much as the one we’re in.

>Corollary: These hidden worlds cause us great pain.

Camaraderie, communion, family, friendship, love… we are lost without connection.

It’s quite terrible to be alone.


	2. Episode One: Happy Birthday!

Dean woke up with his face in the dirt. He rolled onto his back a groan, wiping grit out of his eyes and spitting it out of his mouth. He didn’t remember falling asleep outside, or falling asleep at all, really- he hadn’t been on any benders, hadn’t been working in the yard. The vague concept of narcolepsy formed in his mind before vanishing. He opened his eyes, looking up at a room that he didn’t recognize. It was a barn, dimly lit by a blue glow seeping in from outside, the air filled with its’ ringing. The walls were covered in strange symbols, spray painted in black. He looked up at the broken down tractor, the tool bench, before trying to push himself up. The glow intensified, the light pushing more insistently through the loose boards of the walls and ceiling, and he reeled wildly; suddenly he was falling, his heart pounding in his chest as his arms pinwheeled, trying to grab at something, _anything_ -

He fell back into consciousness with a jolt, grimacing at the puddle of drool that had formed under his cheek. He pushed himself up on his elbows, wiping spit away from his chin and squinting into the darkness to find his alarm clock. _4:30 am_. An entire thirty minutes early. He let himself collapse back onto the mattress, floating back into that space between sleep and waking. By the time the alarm would have gone off, he was up, washing his face and brushing his teeth, pulling on his work coveralls on over his underthings. The words _SMITH AUTO_ were printed in square script across the back and over the left breast, above the words _BODYSHOP - REPAIR - MAINTENANCE_ on the back, and _OUR NAME MEANS QUALITY_ on the front; his name was embroidered over the right, in faux-cursive font. He made his way out into the hall, knocking on one of the doors as he passed.

“C’mon, Claire, you gotta get up.”

He made is way briskly down the stairs, coming out into the kitchen and starting a pot of coffee before pulling a small orange bottle out of the cabinet. He shook one of the pills out onto his hand, a small robin’s egg blue capsule, and tossed it back, chasing it with water. He replaced the pill bottle and got out eggs and bread. He set to work making breakfast, putting Claire’s plate on the kitchen island and eating his at the counter, looking out the window to the backyard. The light in the alley cast the pines in a circle of cool tungsten, illuminating everything in stark relief. A strange, lumpy shape sat on one of the branches. It puffed up, ruffled its’ feathers before a pair of wide, reflective eyes flashed. An owl.

He didn’t know how long he had been looking at it when the coffee maker trilled and he nearly dropped his plate. He looked over at the timer- _5:45_ \- and put his plate down, walking back over to the bannister.

“Claire! Come on, you’ll miss the bus-“

“I’m up!” She appeared at the top of the stairs, already dressed, her backpack flung over her shoulder. “I’m ready to go! D’you have breakfast?”

“On the island.” Dean stepped back so she could pass, ruffling her hair affectionately. She brushed his hand off, complaining about him ruining it as she strode into the kitchen. He waited a moment before following, trading his cup for a travel mug once he was at the counter again. When he looked out of the window, the sun was rising. The owl was still on its’ branch, staring at him. At the island, Claire was complaining about runny eggs as she scooped them onto her toast.

“Hey, you learn anything about owls in school?” He asked, turning to her.

“What? Why?”

“There’s this one in the backyard. Seems a little out of season, doesn’t it?” He nodded to the window.

She got up to look through it, her eyes bouncing around the trees before finding it when it ruffled its’ feathers.

“Huh. I don’t know about out of season,” She said slowly. “But It’s pretty early in the morning for these guys to be out. I can ask my biology teacher, if you want.”

“Nah, not unless you want to.” Dean shook his head before looking back to the timer. _6:10_

“You meeting Bridgitte at the bus stop?” He turned and reached into the cupboard for another travel mug, filling it up for Claire.

“She said she felt sick on the phone last night. Some period thing. Sorry, _girl problem_ , as it’s known to your delicate male sensibilities,” She sarcastically corrected, even though Dean hadn’t said anything. “She might be staying home today.”

“Want me to walk with you?” He put the mug down in front of her before turning back to flip the coffee maker off.

“Ew, no.” Claire wrinkled her nose before grinning.

“Hey, there are some real creeps out there.” He held up his hands in surrender. “You can’t blame a guy for being worried.”

“I’d recommend less concerned dad and more chill foster parent.” She quirked an eyebrow at him before sliding off the stool, depositing her dish in the sink. “And Pamela made me pinky swear not to tell you- which, _childish much_ , right?- but your party is here at six thirty tonight. No excuses, and don’t be late.”

“Yes ma’am.” Dean saluted. She turned and leaned against the sink, crossing her arms as she fixed him with a look.

“Seriously. It’s a big surprise party, no working past six thirty. Pamela and I worked too hard on this for you to not show up.”

“I’ll be here. _Promise._ ” He held out his pinky finger. Claire glared at it a moment before rolling her eyes, locking her own pinky around it. Dean caught her grin before she pulled their hands apart, walking back to pick up her bag.

“Sure you don’t want me to walk with you?” He asked again.

“No, Dean, I’ll be fine.” She grabbed the coffee mug.

“You got the thing I gave you?”

“Your dad’s old butterfly knife?” Claire quirked an eyebrow. “Always. In my pocket, where I can reach it.” She pulled it out and showed it to him.

“Good. Lunch?”

She walked to the fridge and pulled it open, retrieving a paper bag and holding it up like it was the most boring thing in the world.

“Alright. Be careful, no detours. Stick to the streetlights.” He called after her. She had turned and was making her way towards the door.

“I know!” She called back. “Don’t forget about six thirty!”

“Have a good day at school,” He called in return, rinsing their dishes and loading them into the dishwasher before grabbing his own lunch from the fridge. He shoved his keys and wallet into his pockets and locked the front door as he made his way out to the garage, sliding into the drivers’ seat of his car. As he backed out onto the street, he looked back towards the house, pausing as his eyes clapped onto the small, round shadow on top of it- another owl had landed on the roof, perching itself on top of the split level. Right over his room.

“Two owls in one day,” He muttered. “Weird.”

Garth was already there when he pulled up, immersed in some paperwork in the office, bobbing his head along with whatever was on his walkman. Dean was able to walk right up to the counter, leaning against it as he waited for Garth to notice him. When he eventually did, he jumped, knocking the walkman off the counter and cutting a long mark across the paper with his pen.

“Dean! Hey, man, you scared me!” He ducked down to grab the walkman, pulling the headphones off and setting it aside.

“I know you like being employee of the month, but do you ever sleep?” Dean laughed.

“I sleep plenty.”

“You’re here more than I am, and my name’s on the door.”

“Not tonight,” Garth leveled the pen at him. “Tonight I’ve got a- a thing.”

“A _thing_?” Dean’s eyebrows show up. “What’s this _thing’s_ name?”

“I didn’t say it had a name, I just said it was a thing.” Garth ducked down again to trade the ruined form for a new one.

“And I’m assuming it has a name. Maybe Jenna, Jamie…?” He tried the name of one of the girls at the auto parts store they used, the nice one whose name he could never really remember.

“Jennifer?” Garth frowned. “No- yes. Yeah, actually, we have a thing, tonight.” He scrambled to cover his blunder, not looking Dean in the eye.

“You’re a terrible liar, Garth.” Dean clapped him on the back, making his way toward the repair bays. “You gonna be at my place tonight?”

“Yeah,” Garth conceded. “I guess Claire told you about the party?”

“She seemed to think it was the best way to get me to show up.”

“Well, you sorta blew your last few parties off.”

“Hey, those weren’t my fault.” Dean frowned, flipping the switches for the lights. The bays lit up in fluorescent blue-white light, illuminating a truck and a sedan that had been left with them over night, and against the far wall, a sleek black car. “You get me a present?”

“Show up tonight and find out.” Garth smiled, finishing up his paper work and placing the white copy on Dean’s desk, keeping the pink and yellow ones for himself, waving them as he walked past Dean into the bay. “We need more parts for the F150.”

“What the hell could we need, the thing’s twenty years old. It’s a frame and an engine!”

As they argued in the bay, the door opened, and Pamela stepped inside, sweeping her eyes around the room before calling,

“Hello, are we open?”

Dean leaned back out of the door.

“Front door’s open, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but you actually gotta flip the sign over and turn on the one out front on, genius.”

“Ah.” He grinned. “That must be it. Your wealth of knowledge is why we keep you around, Pamela.”

She flipped him off as she flipped the sign on the door and lit up the sign out front. Benny clocked in soon after her, padding around with Dean and Garth as they worked through early-morning repairs and inventory. Calls filtered in, and then customers. When five o’clock finally rolled around, Benny and Garth bid Dean good night, and Pamela stuck her head into the repair bay.

“Don’t stay too late,” She frowned. “Claire and I have your birthday dinner planned.”

“I’ll finish up putting this seal on and then I’ll leave,” He extracted himself from the disassembled front end of a Cadillac that needed an axel seal replaced. “Promise. I won’t be late.”

“You better not be.” She jabbed a finger at him before retreating, leaving Dean to finish taking the rest of the car apart. He replaced the seal, washed his hands, and started closing everything down for the night, steeling himself for the party. It wasn’t that Dean _didn’t_ like a party, but birthday parties were a different matter. Another year, big deal. But Claire had made him promise. He checked the clock on the way out- six o’clock exactly- and locked the door.

He looked up at the sunset, taking it all in for a moment while he unlocked his car, before he stopped. Sitting in the trees, across the small parking lot, _looking at him_ , was a whole- group? Herd? Flock?- of owls. None of them moving, their eyes reflecting the light in bright little points.

He muttered under his breath before climbing into his car, throwing it in reverse and speeding out of the parking lot. Suddenly, the party didn’t look so bad, as long as Pamela didn’t invite any goddamn owls. On his drive, he made a mental note to look up owl behaviors at the library over the weekend. He pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes later- _not a goddamn owl in sight, thank god_ \- and shuffled into the house, toeing his shoes off and leaving them by the door, hoping to sneak past everyone for at least a few more minutes when Claire poked her head out into the hallway.

“Hey! You’re on time!” She smiled.

“Yeah. Yeah, no way I’d miss it,” Dean grinned back.

“You’re a terrible liar, but thank you.” She nodded.

“Just let me shower and change, and I’ll be down for the pa- for _dinner_ ,” He said carefully, shooting a look to the door to the backward and then to the entrance to the kitchen.

“She’s out back,” Claire explained. “Getting the grill booted up.”

“I’ll be down in twenty.”

Dean hustled up the stairs, dropping his dirty clothes in the hamper and starting up a hot shower, groaning at his last few moments of quiet, non-attention. He moved through the shower as slowly as he could without taking an obnoxiously long time, threw on some jeans and socks and a sweater before padding back downstairs. Claire was still in the kitchen, slicing toppings for burgers and- he grimaced- sipping on a beer.

“Need some help?” He sidled up to the other side of the island, grabbing the bottle and taking a swig.

“Hey,” She swiped for it, frowning when he held it out of her grasp. “Pamela gave that to me, y’know. It’s perfectly legal if there’s an adult in the house.”

“What the hell would child services say if they found out my sixteen year old was slamming beers like a dock worker?”

“ _Nothing_ , unless you’re a snitch.” She made another grab for it. Dean played keep away again, taking another big drink before she looked at him pointedly. “And snitches get stitches, Dean.”

“Is that your gift to your foster father on his birthday? Death threats?” He weighed the bottle before taking another swig and handing it back. “There. You can have the rest, and don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“Dude! It’s half-gone,” She glared at him as she took a drink. “And stitches isn’t a death threat, it’s a maim-threat. It’s like, DEFCON-3, _maybe_.”

“Alright,” He held his hands up in surrender. “Seriously, what can I help with?”

“Nothing,” Claire shook her head. “Pamela’s outside, just go talk to her and let me get back to work.”

Dean turned to look out the window; he could see his and Claire’s reflections, and Pamela at the grill in the pool of yellow the porch lights cast. The yard beyond that had been lit by ropes of Christmas lights and a small fire, burning in a pit surrounded by the shadowy outlines of chairs. He couldn’t see anyone else. He slid a pair of backward shoes on and stepped outside, noting the table laden with food and a cooler of beer pushed up underneath the window.

“Y’know, it’s gonna be, like, twenty degrees tonight,” He said. She turned and smiled at him, putting the spatula down and striding over to pull him not a hug.

“You made it!” She stepped back, motioning to the cooler. “Beer,” And to the table. “Snacks,” And then to the grill. “Burgers. And the fire for when it gets really cold.”

“Good idea,” He nodded before looking back through the window. “Beer for Claire? Really?”

“She’s sixteen, she’s fine. My parents let me have a beer when I was her age,” Pamela waved his concern away. “ _A_ beer. Now come over here, it’s warmer by the grill.”

When he was standing beside her, warming his hands over the grates, the bushes rustled. A moment later, four people shot up out of them, screaming _Happy Birthday!_ He feigned surprise, laughing when Pamela elbowed him in the ribs- _he_ had thought he was convincing- and greeted everyone as they shuffled out of the shrubbery. Benny and Garth were there, and Charlie and Gilda, their neighbors from across the street.

“Happy birthday, dude,” Charlie pulled him into a tight hug. “We didn’t think you’d have one this year!”

“A birthday?” He said incredulously. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“A _party_ ,” Gilda corrected, hugging him when Charlie stepped away.

“I had no idea any of this was happening, it was all Pamela.” Benny and Garth stepped forward for their own side-hugs, Benny producing an extra beer for him seemingly from nowhere.

“Oh, we know,” Benny smiled.

“Burgers are done!” Pamela declared, sliding them onto a plate as Claire brought the toppings out; they were set on the table, and the spread was complete. Pamela declared the buffet officially open, darting over to where she had put a boom box on a chair, sliding a cassette on and pressing play.

“Burgers, beer, a campfire, _and_ Zeppelin?” Dean whistled when they were all seated around the fire pit, their plates propped on their knees. “Gotta admit, Pam, you did a great job.”

“Hey, I made the bacon shrimp. Don’t forget about the bacon shrimp.” Charlie frowned, waving one like a baton.

“And the bacon shrimp, truly a masterpiece,” He conceded.

They chatted as they ate; Charlie about her work on computer games, Gilda about her tabletop RPG group; Dean, Garth and Benny complained and jokes about repairs at work, the weirdest and the worst and the outright dumb. Pamela regailed Claire with stories of her days as a psychic. They all went back for seconds, and a few more for thirds; Dean was helping himself to more potato salad- Charlie’s, her grandmother’s recipe, and delicious- piled next to green beans that Garth brought and chips that Benny had picked up at Pamela’s insistence, when Benny shuffled up next to him, another beer in hand.

“Man, I could really get used to this kind of service.” Dean grinned. Benny chuckled, taking a drink before asking,

“You okay, man?”

“Yeah. Why?” Dean tossed some chips in his mouth.

“It’s just… thirty-four. Big milestone for you.” Benny shrugged. Dean felt himself clam up reflexively, staring at his plate.

“People turn thirty-four everyday.” He tried to brush it off.

“That’s not the point, an’ you know it.” Benny leaned back against the table, fixing him with a look. “I know it’s your party n’ all, but…”

“But what?” Dean snapped, cringing a bit at his defensiveness. “But my mom?”

“Well. Yeah,” Benny shrugged.

“I’m fine. Hey, I’m not dead,” He gestured to himself. “See? Happy, healthy, mentally stable. Here, doing things mentally stable people do.” He gestured towards the campfire. A peal of laughter from Claire rang out. “Fire. Contained. I’m fine.”

“Alright. Alright,” Benny hand up his hands. “Sorry to mention it, I just- I wanted to ask.”

“Yeah. Yeah, man, I get it,” Dean’s shoulders slumped. “Thanks for the concern.”

Benny gave him a small smile, nodding. Pamela twisted around in her chair then,

“Dean, are you eating _more_?” She shouted.

“What? Working all day makes you hungry.” He called back.

“Save room for desert!” Claire piped up. “Glinda worked hard on it, she’ll be heartbroken if you pig out on chips before you can have any of it!”

“ _Hey_ ,” Dean frowned, picking a green bean up. “I’ve got vegetables!”

“Potato salad isn’t a vegetable!”

“This is a green bean!”

They moved inside soon after that, the seven of them making sick work of moving the food and drink into the kitchen. Claire, Pamela and Gilda pushed him through the dining room- where a small pile of what Dean guessed were presents sat hidden under a tablecloth- into the TV room where he sat with Charlie, Garth and Benny until Charlie caught sight of something behind him, her face lighting up for an instant before someone clapped their hands over his eyes.

“ _Hey_!” He complained. Gilda laughed above him.

“You can’t see it yet! Just be patient!”

When she lifted her hands away, Dean couldn’t help but smile- really, genuinely smile. Gilda had made a pie- syrupy, condensed cherry filling visible and tiny through the steam vents, sparkler candles fizzing and glowing on top. Pamela had turned out the lights, and when a light flashed somewhere in front of him, he squinted up to see Claire grinning widely as her polaroid spit a picture out. She stuck it in her pocket as she started singing _Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you_ -

Claire snapped another photo as he blew the candles out, Pamela flipping on the lights as he started to cut pieces for everyone. Charlie doled out scoops of vanilla ice cream; when Dean was halfway through his piece, she set her plate down and jumped up.

“Time for presents!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to wait for after cake,” Gilda called after her as she disappeared into the dining room, re-emerging with two large boxes wrapped in penguin-patterned paper and presenting them with a bright smile.

“Nice wrapping paper,” Claire grinned, snapping another picture.

Dean pulled the paper off of one to reveal a hefty box that read _Vonnegut: The Complete works;_ the other one was a colorful collection of tapes whose spines all read, _Star Trek: The Complete Series_.

“Holy shit, guys, this is-“

“Awesome, we know,” Charlie grinned. “Comdex was good to us last year, so why not share the wealth and happiness?”

Garth went next, presenting a box wrapped in something that looked like wallpaper. Dean unwrapped it to reveal what looked like a cigar box, with pair of woolen socks rolled up inside.

“Uh… thanks, man,” He pulled a few of them out, confused.

“I wouldn’t unravel them here,” Garth said pointedly, and Dean frowned at him a moment before catching on, quickly stuffing them back in the cigar box, thanking him for some great pairs of socks.

Benny didn’t bother to wrap his gift, handing him a book that read _Orvis Fly Fishing Guide 1985_ \- Dean raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Benny shrugged. “I know a friend of the printers.”- and another box beneath it that read _Fly Kit_.

“Look inside the guide,” Benny said, before Dean could say anything. Dean flipped it open, seeing a credit-card size piece of paper that read _Fishing License_. “You n’ me are getting out on those rivers.”

Claire waived the camera up when it was her turn.

“My present is going to be a scrapbook,” She explained, before digging in her pockets and producing three tickets that read _Iron Maiden World Slavery Tour- Pittsburgh PA_. “And these. Pamela and I pooled our cash.”

“Holy shit. This is-“

“Awesome, we know,” Claire grinned.

“This was- this is great, really,” Dean set the tickets down with the rest of the gifts, looking around at his friends. “You guys know I don’t do chick flick moments-“

“Yes, your masculinity is unquestionable,” Charlie said imperiously, giggling when Dean shoved her playfully into Gilda’s shoulder.

“-But this is- it’s really, really an awesome birthday.”

Dean and Charlie made everyone watch _Star Trek_ as they finished their pie, laughing and shouting at the TV through an original pilot Dean had never seen. After it wrapped up, Garth and Benny said goodnight, and Charlie and Gilda piled everyone’s dishes on the counter with an offer to help clean up. Dean declined, he and Pamela and Claire hugging them in turn before watching as they crossed the street. When they were gone, he turned to Claire.

“Bed, school night, good grades- I know-“ She turned away to start trudging up the stairs.

“Hey, before you disappear,” Dean held his arms out when she turned around, and she hopped back down the stairs to hug him. “Thanks for making me show. It was a great party.”

“I know. You better show next year, too.” She said pointedly, stepping away to hug Pamela.

“Thanks for the help bug,” She squeezed Claire tight, rocking back and forth before letting her go. “Get lots of sleep, do good in school-“

“I know, I know,” Claire rolled her eyes. “Thanks Aunt Pam.”

“Don’t call me _Aunt Pam_ , god, it makes me sound like a round Italian auntie.”

“Thanks, _Pamela_ ,” Claire smirked, retreating back upstairs. Dean rubbed his eyes, grinning at Pamela before retreating back to the kitchen. She she followed, he was standing at the sink, rinsing dishes before loading them into the dishwasher.

“You shouldn’t be cleaning up after your own party.” Pamela pointed out, grabbing a couple of beers from the cooler and popping the caps, offering him one.

“Well, as much as I appreciate the party, and the pie, and the concert tickets-“ He raised the beer in a salute to her. “You and Claire aren’t the best at cleaning up.”

“You used to not be either.” She pointed out.

“Yeah, but then I started a business, bought a house, adopted a kid-“

“I started a business and bought a house.”

“You were a psychic working out of your house,” Dean corrected.

“Yeah, and I had a great time not being overly responsible,” She rolled her eyes before turning to the leftovers. “You want me to pack you and Claire lunch?”

“Cold hamburgers? Yes, please,” He grinned.

They chatted as she made lunches and Dean did dishes, then fridge Tetris in an attempt to fit all the Tupperware and lunch bags and extra bottles of beer around what was already there. When they were done, Dean looked around the kitchen before sidling over to stand next to Pamela.

“I was gonna blow this whole thing off for the axle seal, but… Claire made me come.” He shrugged. “I’m glad I did.”

“I know,” Pamela smiled. “I know you’re not a fan of birthdays, but you know us. We all wanted to party and your birthday was just the most convenient excuse.”

“God, Pam, don’t ruin the magic.”

“I’m kidding,” She laughed.

“I know I’ve said it a lot but, thanks. Seriously.” He bumped his shoulder against hers.

“Hey, don’t go running off on me or anything. You got one more present,” Pamela said, walking over to her bag and digging through it before holding up a notebook. “I did your star chart.”

“Oh, _god_ , Pam-“

“No complaining. You gotta start thirty-four with good energy, the stars can help you with that.” She admonished, and he turned his attention back to the dishes in resignation. She fished back in her bag and donned a pair of glasses.

“I think Garth hid pot in those socks. Should I get some of that to compliment your woo, or whatever, or are we good with the beer?”

She ignored him, clearing her throat before reading imperiously-

“Dean Smith, born January twenty-fourth, nineteen fifty-one- Your sun sign is Aquarius, your moon sign is Leo… Idealistic, stubborn, curious- your sun was in the fifth house, which means it’s easy for you to accept responsibility and order,” She gestured to the house, rolling her eyes. “Moon in Leo is interesting; you’re creative, like being the center of attention when you’re with friends. You gotta set things right, you’re like the den mother.”

“Wow. Are we the Girl Scouts now?” He snorted. Pamela shoved him before reading on,

“You’re brave, honest, et cetera- you wanna hear about Venus?”

“Which one is that, again?”

“ _Venus_ represents emotion, interpersonal exchange, and relationship values-“ She spoke up, before they both shrank back and giggled when Claire yelled _Trying to sleep up here!_ From the landing. “You’re open-minded, with an eye towards the future. You want your prospective partner to see you as rebellious, a little provocative- in other words, _cool_ \- you’re attracted to unconventional relationships. Restrictions can come off as threatening to you. Your Venus is in Aquarius, you want people to love you for your brain, not your butt. Pity. All in all, the stars say you’re a dynamic, engaging personality. Oh, and your Jupiter’s negative thirty-four opposition with your sign in the sixth house means you may be a bit of an eater.”

“Well don’t sugarcoat it.”

“Saturn’s interesting- it represents effort. Usually some sort of restriction, an association with an authority figure- typically the father. It’s in retrograde, right now. It’s the kind that makes that structure and those… limits, become more apparent. It’s the master architect, but it’s also representative of wisdom.”

“So, what, I’m gonna get knocked on my ass by my celestial dad?” He snorted, looking at her with disbelief.

“I think you’re gonna hit a limit. Thirty-four is gonna be the year you… feel out where you edges are,” She shrugged. “Your past and future are gonna… collide, somehow. In all of this.”

“Good energy for thirty-four, huh?” Dean rubbed at his eyes, starting to feel the edge of this particular day. “Look, Pamela, I’ve been up since, like, four a.m., and I’m sure you’ve been up since noon, at least-“

“Har-har, for your information, I was up at _three_ doing this chart, readings, and working on my crystals. It’s that time of the month, y’know?” She wiggled the notebook in his face. “But it is late, and it is a Thursday- get some sleep, I’ll see you at the shop tomorrow.”

She shoved her notebook and reading glasses back in her bag and hugged him goodbye. Dean watched from the door as she got in her car, waving her off before retreating back upstairs, ready to collapse into bed. He threw a pair of pajamas on, splashed cold water on his face, and dropped with a huff onto his mattress. Just as he felt himself slip off, something tapped on the window. He squinted over at it, closing his eyes when he saw nothing.

Whatever it was tapped on the glass again, more insistently, and he rolled out of bed and pulled the blinds open to look for whatever it was.

On a branch, outside the window, barely illuminated by the lights below, was another owl. It stared at him, ruffled its feathers slightly before it hooted. Dean was dumbfounded- it was the tenth own he’d seen that day, it had found his window, it was perched on- _nothing_ , actually, there was no branch outside his window-

“Stop staring!”

He jumped, his jaw dropping as it ruffled its’ feather more insistently, puffing up.

“Are- are you-“

“It’s rude to stare!” Its’ beak snapped like it was scolding him.

“How- what-“ Dean turned and looked back towards the door to his room, thinking of the pills in the kitchen. “Is this because of the beer? God, I knew I shouldn’t have drank it. Hallucinating owls-“

“I’m not a hallucination!” The beak snapped again. “I’m talking to you, you putz!”

“And it’s Jewish!” He threw his hands up. “Alright, strange Jewish Owl… thing. I’m going back to bed, so I can sleep off this visual-auditory hallucination, and tomorrow I’m getting my meds adjusted.”

“I’m not a hallucination!” It insisted, flapping its’ wings. “I’m not Jewish! I’ve got a message for you, I’ve been told it’s very important.”

“Oh. Oh, you, the talking, Jewish-not-Jewish owl, have a very important message for me?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s from the Seventh Hall, to be delivered to Dean-“ And where Dean thought his last name would be, there was only static- “Posthaste, they said! Urgent! Urgent!”

“Oohkay, god, um-“ He squeezed his eyes shut, debating with himself before opening them. The owl was still there. “Fine. Fine! Deliver the message from the Seventh Gate thing of whatever.”

“The Seventh Hall! Just like them, to have me deliver messages to a schlump-“

“ _What the hell is the message_!?” Dean snapped.

“You know, you catch more flies with honey. Your parents ever tell you that? You should try it sometime, maybe you’d be less of a schmuck.”

The owl opened up its’ beak, and for a moment Dean wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen. The air filled with a low buzzing, a light glowing behind the big, glassy eyes. The buzzing grew louder, and more insistent, until it was the molecule-splitting ringing from his dream. He screwed his eyes shut, clapped his hands over his ears to shut it out, but it wormed it’s way in, splitting his skull and boiling his brain and-

The alarm rang, jolting him awake. He looked over at it- _5:00 am_. 


	3. Episode Two: The Car

_Discovery Six_ had taken off from the New Cassius shipyard on Mars almost a year ago. Sam, Claire, Madison, Heywood and Brady had posed for a picture in front of the air lock, gave short interviews to the cameramen who were standing by before being ushered into the sleep bay, climbing into their stasis pods and letting the tech crew strap them in before medical ran the IV’s, and they all slipped into unconsciousness.

A few months later, Sam squinted against cool white light filtering in from the narrow window of plex set above his eyes as vents hissed and regulators beeped. Something trilled before a voice filled the pod-

 _Hello, Sam Wesson. Welcome to_ Discovery Six _. I am the onboard computer system, the T.R.A.N., or Technological Response and Analytical Network, Predictive model. I will be assisting you and Claire on this mission_ -

The top of the stasis pod opened and he saw Claire, already in her jumpsuit, grinning at him.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. You got a long-range sensor lab to run!”

She pushed a jumpsuit down onto his chest and pushed herself away from the pod, slicing back through the air in a gentle arc. Sam noticed that he was floating, just a few centimeters above the thin mattress. Zero gravity.

They had been woken up to maintain The Wheel, as it was called, and for him to monitor the long-range sensor lab. They were just passing Jupiter, encroaching on Saturn, the planet and its’ rings turning and glimmering in the distance. He and Claire spent their time working in the sensor lab, watching news broadcasts, playing chess with TRAN and and working on minor repairs. A few months into floating around between bays, Sam was in the sensor lab, watching as the computer printed out lines and lines of radio analysis.

“TRAN, give me an analysis of these patterns,” He squinted at the sheet of paper that was being ejected slowly from the printer, focusing on a segment of what looked like abnormal spikes that quickly tapered off into a normal pattern. “Section 52B, from 06:00 to 0:610.”

The computer made a noise, whirring and processing, before it trilled.

_“Analysis indicates the edge of an unknowable quantity; this is a frequency unknown to us.”_

“Hey, why is there a car in the pod bay?” Claire stuck her head through the connector and into the sensor lab, interrupting Sam before he could ask another question.

“What?” Sam pushed at the edges of the tube, controlling his turn towards her. Their first full day up, he had spun around in zero-g and whacked his head on the edge of a computer bank. They had been out here for eleven months now, almost a year. “A what?”

“A car,” She pointed back over her shoulder. “In the pod bay. It’s a black chevy.”

“You aren’t, like, spacing out are you?” He asked with a grin. “Not adjusting the atmospheric mixture or anything?”

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny. It’s a fucking car, smart ass. On the ship. C’mon.” She reached a hand out, pulling him behind her, down the connector between the two sections of the ship. They floated out into the recreation bay, past their cryopods and the stationary workout equipment and the busted comm panel they hadn’t repaired yet before passing through another connector.

The pod bay was confined, white and rectangular, with a row of color-coded exosuits and helmets on one wall, and the airlocks to the repair and emergency pods on the other. True to her word, there was a black car sitting in the middle of it, with barely enough room to fit.

“Wow.” Sam stared at it before speaking to the room. “Hey, TRAN, what’s the atmospheric makeup?”

The computer trilled as Claire scowled at him.

_“Atmospheric makeup is normal, emulating Earth’s atmosphere with a composition of 78% nitrogen, 20% oxygen, 1% argon, and .1% carbon dioxide.”_

“Convinced you’re not high yet?” She rolled her eyes.

“I dunno, I’ll probably have him give me the breakdown for the water next.”

They pushed closer, stopping themselves against the windows.

“Is it open?” Sam reached for the handle.

“I don’t know, I didn’t try it.”

He pulled, and it opened with a _click_. Claire’s eyebrows shot up, and she pushed herself down to get a better look as Sam pulled the door open. The inside was worn black leather and plastic with chrome finishes. It was empty, clean but in a used way.

“Look at that.” Claire pointed, and Sam looked over to the rearview mirror. It had a necklace wrapped around it, a strange-looking pendant hanging from a cord in the empty space beneath it. “Gravity.”

“That’s- what the hell?”

“Look in the glove box.” She pointed to it before leaning inside, reaching over to pull it open. She shouted as she fell forward, throwing her hands out to catch herself against the seat as her legs floated in the air behind her. “There’s gravity in here,” She looked back over her shoulder. “Sam, _there’s gravity in here._ C’mon, go around the other side. C’mon!”

“Alright! Alright.” He pushed himself over the hood of the car, opening the drivers’ side door and swinging his legs through. When they entered the cabin they immediately dropped to the floor. He stopped, stunned before pushing the rest of himself inside, collapsing on the seat with a huff. “Holy shit. Claire, there’s _gravity_ in here.”

“I told you!” She reached over and pulled open the glove box, still supporting her weight with one hand. The inside of it was sparse, empty except for a leather-bound journal, flipping it open. Inside, in cramped handwriting, was a list of names, addresses, phone numbers, and-

“What are these?” Claire held it open for him to look at.

“Old car models,” Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “From centuries ago. Some people still use them in Florida.”

“Whoa, cool.” She flipped through it, stopping at a section in the back. She showed it to Sam, and they read-

_August 15, 1963- Took Dean out on his first job today. ’43 Ford in Louisville. Boy’s a natural. Got a call from-_ the name here was scratched out-. _Behind on alimony again- don’t know what I’m supposed to give her. All out money’s going back in the gas tank this month. Danny tells me I dodged guardian ad litem visit again this week._

_August 18, 1963- Dean finished the transmission repair today. Picking everything up faster than I did- his grandfather would be proud._

_August 20, 1963- Took another job in Louisville. Quick engine repair- got a call at the motel from WVA attorney; GAL stopped by shop. Janine told them we were here. Gotta fire her. Maybe. Found Dean setting off firecrackers with the teenager who works behind the front desk- weird kid. Don’t think I like him._

“God, sounds like this guy had problems.” Claire’s eyebrows shot up. “Ooh, look at this one- _Another phone fight with-_ the name had been scratched out here, too _\- She says she’s suing for full custody. Gonna have to move again. Not giving her a cent. Or my kid._ ”

“Ouch,” Sam winced. Claire flipped forward again, stopping on _November 1970._

_November 3, 1969- Saw doctor. Waiting for test results. Traded in a year of favors and the 3100 for a ’67 impala- gonna pick Dean up from his classes later. He’s gonna flip._

_November 6, 1969- Got tests back. Bad. Dean is planning my death so he can get the car._ The scratched out name again- _called from Louisiana again. Saw owl outside of motel, middle of the afternoon. Lot of strange things happening lately._

“If I take this d’you think it’s, like, a violation of privacy or something?” She looked up at Sam.

“From a guy who parked a car in a spaceship and just left it? I don’t think he’s gonna care.”

“This is, like, fascinating-“ She pushed the door back open and pulled herself back out into the bay. Sam followed, his stomach flipping a little at ascending back into sudden weightlessness. “You think if I write in it that’s a dick move?”

“Is there any blank space in it?”

She flipped to the back.

“Yeah, there’s a whole section- oh, look at this!” She fished a photo out of where it was pressed between the pages and held it up. It was old, black and white and glossy, of a young man in a uniform. It was labeled, _John Smith, USMC, 1942._ “I think that’s the guy that wrote this. And here’s another one-“ She held up another photo, also in black and white. John was smiling, laughing as he held a plate with a woman whose face was obscured by movement, the two of them holding forks. Sam took it and turned it over; it was labeled _John & —, 1945._ “That must be his wedding, and- here!” A third photo, this one of a young boy smiling and holding a toy, seated on the lap of a person whose head and shoulders were cut out of the frame. _Dean, 1954_.

“Wow. These are- this is _ancient_ -“ Sam looked at them side-by-side before handing them back. “I wish we could see what she looked like.”

TRAN beeped just then, chirping out- _“It is 17:00. I am obligated to remind you it is time for your evening meal.”_

“Thanks, TRAN,” Sam called back, handing Claire the photos and pushing towards the mess hall. She followed, the journal tucked under her arm. She read as they ate, occasionally reading out loud when she found something funny or weird- _“This guy keeps seeing owls all the time, who the fuck sees owls all the time?”_ \- before handing him the journal and her fork and pushing over to a workspace. She came back with a pencil and motioned for him to hand the journal back. She started writing before handing it over to Sam again, along with the pencil.

“Here. I wrote an entry in it, now you write one.”

He look it and looked at what she wrote- _My name is Claire Wright, primary mechanic on the Discovery Six. I’m part of a space mission to explore the outer reaches of the solar system- I’m from Michigan, I miss gravity, and can’t wait to eat real ice cream again. I’m writing these entries and making my research fellow write entries because we found this journal in a car in space, and I think it’d be cool._

Sam thought for a minute before writing,

_This is Sam Wesson, primary research fellow on Discovery Six. My crewman and I are making our way past Saturn, out of the solar system. We are accompanied by our computer, TRAN, and have been out here for eleven months at the time of finding this journal. Claire encouraged me to write something in it, so here it is._

“Here,” He handed it and the pencil back. She read it and frowned.

“That’s it? Nothing about where you’re from, or how much you miss ice cream?”

“I don’t miss ice cream,” He said before adding, “Not as much as you do.”

“You’re from Florida, right?” Claire asked, rolling her eyes.

“From Jupiter,” Sam nodded.

“I thought men were from Mars,” She grinned. “Okay, what food d’you miss the most?”

Sam thought a moment before saying, “I dunno. I miss the shrimp.”

“ _‘Sam misses shrimp, probably because they look so absurdly tiny in his freakishly huge hands. He is a veritable Sasquatch.’_ ” She read out.

“Wow.”

“I think it really captures your essence,” She snapped it shut. “TRAN, what time is it?”

_“It is 18:30, time for evening shift.”_

“Put all systems on automatic,” She pushed away from the table, toward the pod bay. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired after a long day in zero gravity.”

“And a gravity-enabled car,” Sam snorted. “How the hell d’you think that thing got in there, anyway?”

“Dunno,” She shrugged. “Aliens?”

“Right, ET traded the bike for a car.”

“I’ve got no idea,” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s like that thing they found on the Moon, the mono-thing.”

“You mean The Monolith?” Sam pushed himself around to look at her, crossing his arms. “They found that thing fifty years ago, what could it have to do with the car?”

“I dunno, but it’s at least similarly weird, isn’t it?” Claire pursed her lips. “Didn’t that one guy disappear, after they found it?”

“They never figured out what it was made out of.” He shrugged. “Unless the body of the car and the monolith were made of the same material, I don’t see the connection.”

“I’m gonna head back there for a while, check it out a little more.” She gestured towards the bay. “Wanna come with?”

“Nah,” Sam shook his head. “We picked up some weird sounds before the car- TRAN said it denoted the edge of an unknowable quantity, whatever that means. I wanna revisit them.”

“Alright. Why check out a _car_ when you’ve got _readouts_ to look over,” She rolled her eyes and pushed through the portal, leaving Sam to clean up and push through to the lab. When he arrived, he floated over to the computer banks, tapping through that day’s filed until he found it.

“TRAN, play section 52B from earlier today.”

_“Playing section Five-Two-B.”_

The air filled with a silvery, high-pitched screeching that made it feel like his eardrums were fluctuating, on the verge of bursting-

“Volume down! Volume down!” He clapped his hands over his ears. The computer trilled, and the screeching decreased to a level that was manageable. “TRAN, break down the signal, try and pinpoint origin.”

The spiky wave pattern that was jittering on the screen split into different channels, and the computer said-

_“Signal seems to originate from within the atmosphere of Saturn; unable to ascertain an exact location.”_

“Whose sending it?”

The computer trilled, thinking, before-

_“Unable to determine.”_

“…Is it similar to any known signals received in this sector?”

_“…Unable to determine.”_

Sam frowned, chewing at his lip before asking,

“Retrieve monolith audio files from the Tycho crater. Wave patterns only.”

_“Working…”_

The screen split again, and another pattern appeared over it. He watched for a moment, looking for the same peaks and valleys, before asking,

“Any detectable similarities?”

_“The patterns are not similar enough to be considered identical when accounting for the correct degree of similarity in detectable radio signals.”_

He sighed, kicking gently against the bank to send him spinning in a slow circle back, thinking.

In the pod bay, Claire was sitting back in the car, lying across the front bench as she read. The journal had a smattering of entries- _1952, Dean said his first word. 1957, — asked for divorce. 1960, Dean got in a fight at school. Broke a kid’s nose. Proud of him._

“Wow, John, you were one hell of a father,” She muttered. After a while, she flipped it shut, pulling the picture of John and his wife on their wedding day back out. Eventually, she tucked it back in the book, replacing it in the glove box before sighing and pushing herself back outside, towards the rec room.


	4. Episode Three: Ceci N’es Pas un Burger

It had been two and a half weeks since the birthday party, and Dean had started keeping a mental tally of owl sightings. One or two outside his house, a couple behind the garage, a group of them sitting in the trees on the way home- he eventually dug a pocket-sized notebook out of his desk at work, kept it tucked in his breast pocket so he could mark down the date and tally the number of birds sighted. He would dart outside over lunch, check out on smoke breaks with Garth or Benny- there was always at least one around.

He caught himself peeking out go the garage windows, too, sneaking looks to see if they were there, if they were watching him. It had become a routine- wake up, check for owls, tally. Make breakfast, get Claire ready for school, tally. Get in his car to go to work, tally before backing out of the driveway and before going in to work. It became a habit, something he did and didn’t think about, tried not to think about.

He was finishing up an oil change and about to go out and do his tally before lunch when Pamela stuck her head into the garage.

“Hey, Dean, you going to get lunch?”

“Was planning on it,” He stepped away from the car, looking ver to her. “I’m headed to the Roadhouse. Wanna come with?”

“I didn’t pack anything, and I don’t want to drive, so yeah,” She nodded.

So he found himself driving down to the burger place down the road, Pamela in the passenger seat, switching his focus back and forth between driving, chatting noncommittally with her, and watching for owls. Two blocks, and so far, nothing.

“What’s out the window?” Pamela asked.

“Huh?”

“The window- you keep looking out the dashboard like you’re looking for something. And you started going out on smoke breaks, I thought you kicked the habit.”

“A man can’t smoke a cigarette now? What the hell is the world coming to,” He shook his head, sneaking a peek out the window again.

“You were drinking at your party, now you’re smoking and looking outside all the time-“

“Pamela-“

“I’m just saying, you’re acting weird.” She put her hands up in surrender. “Maybe you need to, like, get off the substances for a while.”

“Jesus, Pam, I’m not freebasing cocaine!” Dean rolled his eyes. “I had a beer two weeks ago, I’m fine.”

“You’re fine?” She looked at him disbelievingly. “Like in ’77?”

“This is not the same as ’77. And don’t say _not yet_ ,” He frowned. “My meds are fine, I’m fine, but I’ll stay away from beer if it makes you feel better.”

He looked out the window again, searching the trees and roofs that flashed by; all, currently, devoid of owls. He glanced quickly back at the road before looking out the window again, not trusting their sudden absence.

“Dean! _Dean-_ “

He jerked his attention back to the road, hitting the breaks to avoid rear-ending the minivan in front of them. The breaks squealed, the car shaking as they shook to a stop.

“Holy _shit_ , what-“ Pamela looked at him, braced in her seat, before her eyes jumped to the drivers side window- there was a thumping, and Dean looked over to see the man who had been driving the minivan at the window. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do- he knew the person standing there. Knew the angry set in the jaw, the salt-and-pepper hair- knew his dad. He stared, dumbfounded, as his dad knocked on the window again, yelling something. Pamela leaned over him and rolled the window down, and the man started shouting-

“What the _fuck!?_ I have _kids_ in the back of that van, what the fuck’re you doing?”

“We didn’t hit you, he wasn’t-“

“He was lookin’ out the window! The roads in front of you, dumbass!” The man stepped back from the window. At the head of the line, the light they had stopped at was green. Behind them, someone honked their horn. “Fuckin’ reckless drivers-“

“Look, man, I’m real sorry-“ Dean tried, but the man wouldn’t let I’m finish.

“If I see you driving behind me again, I’m gonna run you the fuck over. I got kids to drive around, man!”

“That doesn’t even make sense! _Asshole_!” Pamela rolled down her own window and shouted after him as he got back in his car and sped off.

Dean rolled forward, stopping as the light turned red again. The car behind them honked their horn again, and Dean swore and honked back. Pamela stuck her arm out the window, her middle finger out, before she rolled up her window. Dean rolled up his, and watched the traffic light. The car was quiet for a moment, before Pamela opened her mouth to say something.

“Don’t start,” Dean cut her off. “Not a word.”

“I’m just saying-“

“ _Pam_ -“

“Go see Dr. Adler,” She looked over to him. “That’s all I ask.”

Dean sighed, and was about to say something back when the car behind them leaned on their horn. The driver stuck his head out and yelled, _It’s fucking green!_

Dean stepped on the gas and blew through the light as Pamela rolled her window down and yelled _Fuck you!_ back as they turned left, off the main road and down to the Roadhouse.

“I don’t need to see the doctor, I just-“ He pulled into a parking space, turning the car off and stepping out, glancing up to the trees- where he thought he saw something, a grey-brown lump on a branch- before tearing his eyes away and looking at Pamela, where she was leaning against the car, watching him with an unimpressed look. “I’ll admit it’s been a weird few days, that’s all.”

“Go. See. Adler.” She stepped through the door as he pulled it open. “I don’t want to have to pull your ass out of the gutter again.”

Dean didn’t say anything as he followed her inside. The Roadhouse was- warm, was the only good word for it. Familiar. Familial. Run by the Harvelle family, Dean first met Ellen and Jo when Jo was first learning to drive- she had misjudged a corner, and taken out a mailbox before accidentally t-boning a car that was going the other way. He had fixed the damage, for a discount, when Ellen told him she’d trade free burgers for half of the cost. After he had tried the one she brought him the next day, he agreed. The Roadhouse was Mr. Harvelle’s life’s work, before he succumbed to a coronary when Jo was a child.

Dean and Pamela sidled up to the bar, where they waited for a moment until Ash noticed them.

“Dean, Pam- Has it ever occurred to you two, that we are in an increasingly unstable simulation, run by a suicidally depressed consciousness?” He asked by way of greeting.

“No, but you’re going to give me some of whatever you’re smoking to get me to consider it,” Pamela smiled.

“Fascinating as that is, we’re gonna need two burgers to go. All the way,” Dean grimaced.

Ash was an MIT dropout who lived in one of the two apartments above the bar. Dean had been up to his place once before, and had nearly tripped and been electrocuted by a computer that looked like Frankenstein had cobbled it together.

“Gotcha. Two beers with that?” Ash scribbled their order before looking up at them questioningly.

“No beers, two cokes,” Pamela said.

“Comin’ right up,” He slid back toward the window, calling through to where Ellen was undoubtedly working before walking back over and putting a rectangle wrapped poorly in Christmas paper on the bar. “I heard it was your birthday, so-“ He made a grand gesture. “To your thirty-fifth!”

“It’s from all of us,” They looked over to see Jo walking over with a tray of empty beer bottles. “Mine’s the best, I think.”

Dean unwrapped it, revealing a book, a photo album, and a small box. The book had _Organize It! Two: Engage With Zorp_ printed on it in large red letters.

“What the fuck is this?” He held it up, frowning. Ash grinned.

“From my personal collection- there’s some great stuff in there on the nature of the universe, man, I think you’d really be into it.”

“I got you the album. I called Claire and we thought it would be a good idea,” Jo said, pushing Ash aside so she could lean over the bar. Dean set _Organize It!_ Aside and picked up the album. It had pictures in it of the parties and nights they had all spent at the roadhouse, of Jo standing by her car after Dean finished the repairs, and inside it had a sticky note that read- _Thanks for being the big brother I never had. Happy thirty-fifth. Jo_. “It’s kinda cheesy, but my mom said it would be nice. That people appreciate that kind of thing when they get older.”

“We do, just not the reminder that we’re old,” Pamela grinned.

“This is great, Jo, thanks.” He looked through the pictures with a smile.

“Don’t forget this one,” Ellen appeared from the kitchen, carrying two styrofoam to go boxes. She pushed the small black box that had been set aside toward him. Dean picked it up and opened it, stopping short when he saw what was inside.

It was a watch- not very expensive, not very fancy, but definitely worn and well cared for. The strap was leather that had begun to crack, and the wide face was brushed, silvery nickel with black enameled numbers. Stamped into it, underneath the hands, was the brand name _Saturn_ , and next to that, a small, stylized engraving of an owl.

“It was my husband’s,” Ellen said when he didn’t look up from it. “I was cleaning the other day, and I- it had made its’ way into a box in the back of a closet. He had it from before we met.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” He stared at it a moment later, at the owl, before forcing himself to look up to her.

“Mom figured that since you were there for stuff my dad wasn’t, you should have it,” Jo shrugged. “Sorry we couldn’t get it to you on your actual birthday.”

“That’s alright,” Dean shook his head as he strapped the watch onto his wrist. “It’s- thank you. Really.”

“Lemme get you your cokes,” Jo grinned, turning towards the soda fountain. “Before your old man emotions get to me.”

“My _old man_ emotions?” Dean said incredulously. “Just wait until you get to be thirty five, and see how you feel about teenagers calling you old.”

“I’m not a teenager,” Jo turned back around, sliding two to-go cups to them. Pamela collected them, balancing them on top of the carry-out containers as Dean gathered up the photo album and the book.

“Ceci n’est pas un burger, my friend” Ash said, shooting the cups and to go containers a look.

“You come back ‘round soon,” Ellen called after them. “I’ve got some equipment that needs fixing, and you’re handier than mister MIT over here.” She gestured to Ash.

“Hey, I have something called _mechanical vision_ ,” Ash said defensively. “It means I see past what the engineers at GE put together.”

“Mechanical vision won’t help you fix a fridge,” Dean laughed as they exited the roadhouse, piling back into the car. As he turned the ignition on, he looked back at the watch face.

“Hold on just a sec,” He said when Pamela looked over to him. He dug out his notebook, flipping to the page dated for that day and marking down another tally.

“What’s that?” Pamela leaned over to look at it, punching a stray through the lid of her drink and taking a sip.

“It’s a- it’s-“ He signed, pinching the bridge of his nose before flipping it closed. “It’s a record of all the owls I’ve been seeing.”

“The owl’s you’ve been seeing?” Pamela repeated. “What owls?”

“On my birthday, I saw a handful of them just- around- in the backyard, on the house. And I’ve been seeing them around a lot, so-“

“And the owl symbol on your watch counts?” Pamela eyebrows shot up. “Is this because of your meds?”

“I don’t know, I just-“ He stuck the pencil back in the notebook and flipped it shut, shoving it back into his pocket. “Let me handle it. It’s not anything like ’77, it’s just- it’s just weird, Pamela, that’s it.”


	5. Episode Four: Proper Trajectory Around Saturn for a Successful and Graceful Exit of the Solar System

_Claire wants me to start writing notes in here. Not sure what to write that isn’t already in our logs- we’re passing Saturn, the strange readings we’ve been picking up have… expanded, would be the best word, but that’s not really what it’s doing- sound doesn’t fill space like this, but there’s nothing else it could be_ but _sound. It’s not light, not radiation or some other kind of particle emission, and it’s not matter. I’d like to think it’s something moving inter dimensionally, or otherwise folded through space, but right now I’m writing a conclusion before a hypothesis. And with the car, I don’t know what the hell is going on. We’re out in the middle of the solar system, how does a chevy get out here? But it’s solid, and I’m sitting in it, so I have to accept that it’s real. I’ve got my behavioral later, maybe I’ll hash some of it out then. I feel like I’m at the limits of something._

_Signing off for now, maybe I’ll log this into the computer later. Sam._

Sam was laying in the back of the impala, scribbling a small, listless note in the journal as he looked up at the beige fabric liner on the roof. After a year in space the gravity in the cabin felt like it was pulling him down through the leather seat, like if he didn’t put conscious effort into breathing and pushing back against it he would be crushed. It had been days since they found the journal, and this was the second afternoon he had spent in the backseat. He had noticed that there was a smell to it- ozone and gunpowder and stale, old tobacco. He twisted a bit, looking forward the windshield as he pressed his back to the angle in the seat. He lost track of how long he was laying there before there was a noise, and he looked up to see Claire tapping on the window as she floated outside.

“Your turn for behavioral,” She called. “You should get in there before I go do some work on T.R.A.N. I’ve got to go up and do some work on the telecom array in the meantime.”

“Alright,” Sam grunted as he sat up, leaning over the seat to shove the journal back into the glovebox before he pushed the door open, Claire moving with the door. For a moment, his stomach flipped, and he felt like he had to pee when he exited the car before everything settled. “What’s going on with T.R.A.N.?”

“Nothing, he just needs some maintenance. Speaking of, you used the telecom recently?”

“Not since we left Jupiter’s orbit.” He shook his head.

“It’s fritzing,” Claire frowned. “Real weird, too, since it was supposed to be brand new. I’m starting to think those idiots at JPL can’t put a box together.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. JPL can’t be any worse than the U.L.P. programmers.” Sam grinned, pushing off toward central processing.

He passed through the airlock into the blank grey corridor before he came to a stop at the next airlock, this one painted red with the words _CENTRAL PROCESSING_ in blocky yellow font. Beside it, there was a grey module with a keypad and a small screen. He pushed himself over to it and looked into the screen. It blinked to life, running a bar of cold blue light over his face before flickering to a silly green, settling on his eye. He keyed in his code, and said, “Sam Wesson for behaviorals. I’m expected.”

The computer trilled and the crossbars in the door _thump_ -ed as they were retracted; the door opened with a hiss to reveal a hexagonal room filled with blinking switchboards. There was a bank of monitors on one side, and a round, fish-eye glass set into another. The whole thing was bathed in soft pink light coming from an array of LED’s set into the ceiling, and there was a chair in the middle of the room for the occupant to strap themselves into. He floated over to it, maneuvering into it as the door _thump_ -ed shut and strapping himself in, pushing himself around to face the fish-eye glass.

“Ready for my behavioral, T.R.A.N.”

Something inside the glass whirred as a green point of light buzzed into existence, and an array of spindly, delicate-looking arms folded out of the wall with a _hiss_ , some equip with their own lenses and some with small microphones.

_“Excellent, Sam. Take the pulse oximeter, and place it on your right middle finger, please.”_

Sam took the oximeter from its’ place on the side of the chair, clamping it onto his finger before looking back into the glass. To his left, one of the monitors filled with a red wave pattern.

“Hit it, mister wizard,” He grinned.

 _“Behaviorals will now commence.”_ The lights on the ceiling flickered violet. _“Recite your baseline, please.”_

The baseline, the phrase that each astronaut chose from a provided list and memorized and never told to anyone else, leapt easily to Sam’s mind.

“His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.”

_“We will now commence with the first stage of behaviorals. Answer quickly, and accurately. All answers and results are confidential.”_

The light flickered green.

_“How vast is the vastness of space?”_

“Vast.”

_“How vast is this vastness that is measured?”_

“In a vastness we cannot comprehend.”

_“How long have you been in the vastness of space?”_

“Eight months, four days in the vastness of space.”

_“How long until we reach the edge of the vastness of space?”_

“There is no edge to the vastness of space.”

_“When you move from The Foundation to Wisdom, along which path do you travel?”_

“Twenty-five and fifteen.”

_“When you move from Wisdom to Understanding, along which path do you travel?”_

“Fourteen.”

_“When you move from Splendor to Mercy, along which path do you travel?”_

“Twenty-seven.”

_“Along which path leads you toward the vastness of space?”_

“The expression of the soul in the union of assimilated intellect leads you toward the vastness of space.”

The computer whirred before trilling, and the light flickered blue.

_“The first stage of behaviorals is complete. We will now commence with stage two. This is the core of the U.L.P. behavioral process- answer honestly. What is your purpose on this mission?”_

“My purpose is to monitor the long-range sensor lab on the Discovery Six mission to the edges of the solar system. When we pass Pluto, I will go back into stasis, and hand of my responsibilities to crewman Tyson Brady.”

_“Are you confident in your ability to complete your mission?”_

“I am.”

_“What is the purpose of the Discovery Six mission?”_

“To investigate signals sent to Earth from the last known coordinates of the Voyager satellite, pinpointed as coming from past the edges of our Solar System.”

_“Describe what you miss most about Earth. Take your time.”_

Sam thought a moment, searching through his memory before settling on one.

“I miss sitting out behind my mom’s trailer in Jupiter, when it’s summer, with takeout and a beer, spending time with friends. It’s especially nice on blackout nights, when the town flips off the streetlights. You can see the stars better.”

_“Describe your mother.”_

Sam took a moment to recall his mother, to hold an image of her in his mind.

“She’s blonde, tall- nice. She’s got kind eyes, she was always a kind person. I don’t know how she lost my dad, or my dad lost her- sometimes she would tell me that some people just weren’t meant to be together, or not be together for a long time. She would sing Beatles songs to me when I was sick, or scared, and she would always be at school events or PTA stuff. No matter how long she needed to work, she was always there for me. She’s a good mom.”

_“Describe your father.”_

“I never knew him.” Sam shook his head. “Him and my mom split, before I was old enough to know what was going on. I don’t know his name, I’ve never seen him. She never talked about him, he never called.”

_“Describe your siblings.”_

“I don’t have any.”

_“What led you to volunteer for this mission?”_

“I saw footage of the 1969 moon landing in school, and from that moment all I wanted to do was go into space. This seemed more fulfilling than piloting for Pan-Am inter solar.”

_“Describe your state of mind on5.5.2450.”_

“I was… tired. Kind of out of it, I think waking up in a place with no sunrise or sunset is starting to throw me off. I’ve had a hard time staying adjusted to it, but it’s not too bad. I wasn’t overly excited, but I wasn’t bored- no, you know what, I was excited about something- I was excited about those new readings. From Saturn.”

_“Describe these readings.”_

“They’re the ones from section 52B, from last week. The sounds that are- filling up space. I was excited to run some different wave pattern analysis, and compare them with the other patterns is sections C, D and E we picked up from this past week. If they’re consistent, they’ll form the basis a detectable pattern.”

_“Describe the significance of this pattern.”_

“This could indicate the presence of another monolith,” Sam saw the wave pattern on the monitor pick up out of the corner of his eye as his heart rate increased with the possibility of another monolith. “Or of another intelligent presence. Or it could be a new kind of wave or particle pattern we’ve previously never been able to detect. My analysis so far hasn’t done much to crack it, but it does seem like the closer we get to Saturn the more we pick it up.”

_“Elaborate, please.”_

“The monolith- you know what it is. It was found on Tycho, decades ago- they still don’t know what it was, or how it got there, and it disappeared after that astronaut from the first Discovery mission went missing. I’d need to see whatever data they collected to compare. And there are ways to determine whether or not a signal is organic in origin, but so far I haven’t had any success in determining- anything about it, really. It’s just, _there_. But as far as I know, no signals like this have been picked up before. Which, to me, signals a high probability of it being artificial in origin. And that’s not even mentioning the car-”

He trailed off, unsure about opening that can of worms. If T.R.A.N. picked up the car, then it was- objectively- real. If it didn’t, then… what was the possibility of a collective, highly elaborate, _physical_ hallucination?

_“Describe this car.”_

“It’s- it’s a black chevy, sitting in the pod bay. Claire found it, the day we picked up the patterns in section 52B. It’s- it wasn’t there when we left New Cassius. And it’s- it’s got gravity. It’s got someone’s notebook in it. It’s- I don’t know why, but it’s _real_ , it’s _there_.”

_“Do you believe there is a possibility it is related to the signals?”_

“I… no. I don’t know.”

_“Describe you state of mind after detecting the car.”_

“Surprised. Unsure about- about if it was real. Or if I was dreaming- I wasn’t sure if I was still in stasis, people have weird dreams in stasis. But it’s real. I’m pretty sure it’s real- have you picked up anything in the pod bay?”

The computer processed a moment before answering,

_“I have not detected anything unusual in the ship.”_

Sam was silent, long enough that T.R.A.N. eventually asked,

_“How does this information affect your emotional state?”_

“It makes me feel unsure. More unsure. I don’t know, I’ve just- I’ve got to wait and see. I guess. There’s nothing I can do about it right now.”

The computer whirred again before the light flickered to red.

_“The second stage of behavioral is complete. We will now commence with the third and final stage… Are you confident in the success of this mission?”_

“I am.”

_“Are you confident in your ability to carry out your assigned responsibilities?”_

“I am.”

_“Please direct your attention to the primary camera as I ask you this final question.”_

Sam did as T.R.A.N. asked, looking from one of the smaller lenses to the large, glassy one, the green light in it appearing almost white in the red glow. It seemed to pulsate under his gaze, to expand and retract, almost imperceptibly as the rest of the hardware hummed around him. After a moment, the computer trilled again, and the light bathed him in yellow-gold before going to pink again.

_“Your behaviorals are now complete. Thank you, Sam. Your answers will be logged and kept confidential by my privacy protocols. Please replace the pulse oximeter. You are free to return to your duties.”_

Sam did as the computer asked, replacing the oximeter in its’ case as the array of cameras and microphones retracted back into the wall. He unbuckled himself from the seat and turned to exit Central Processing. The drab, cool grayness that was the rest of the ship was almost shocking after the bright lights of Central Processing, and for a moment, the whole place seemed unreal.

He pushed his way back to the sensor lab, grabbing the latest signal printouts. The unusual wave patterns were back, taking up more of the chart than they had the other day. Whatever it was, they had moved farther into it now. Farther into that space within a space. He was moving onto the three-dimensional representations of sound in space when he stopped;

“Hey, T.R.A.N.?”

_“What can I help you with, Sam?”_

“Have any other Discovery missions picked up readings like this, from this area of the solar system?”

The computer trilled as it worked before answering;

_“There have been no similar signals received by any prior Discovery Missions.”_

“And you sent a copy of this data back to Earth?”

_“I have copies of the specified data waiting in the queue for when Claire completes her repairs to the communications array.”_

“You haven’t been able to send it back so far?” He frowned up at the ceiling.

_“I have not; the communications array has been out of order since entering Saturn’s atmosphere.”_

“And Claire hasn’t been able to fix it yet?”

_“Claire has so far been unsuccessful in making lasting repairs- I expect it is due to the age and overall condition of the array rather than her personal ability.”_

Sam looked back down to the printout, his frown deepening. If it was queued for whenever Claire fixed the array, that was all he could hope for right now. Until then, they were cut off, floating through whatever this signal field was. A moment later, he remembered what Claire had told him.

"Hey, T.R.A.N., isn't the array new?"

The computer trilled again, before replying,

_"She must be mistaken. My records show the Discovery Six communications is approximately three generations out of date."_

"Are you sure?"

_"I am bound by the three rules of robotics. I cannot lie. I believe Claire simply misremembered. This is common in humans."_

"Alright," He shrugged, looking at a new section that the printer had just spat out. "I'll trust you, T.R.A.N."

_"Thank you, Sam. I endeavor to earn that trust."_

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched "Maniac" about five or six times now and it remains one of my favorite shows and I used quarantine to shove 15 years of "Supernatural" into my brain so why not make this thing! I'm also borrowing heavily from 2001: A Space Odyssey and Blade Runner (the original and 2049), and I'm very, VERY lightly referencing the Hekhalot Rabbati and the Kaballah/sephirot. Like, very lightly, because I'm not a jewish mystic or anything. 
> 
> I was originally going to post the whole thing in one go but I'm impatient! I'm also doing the bare minimum re: editing so this is defo not the tight surrealistic work of a Cary Joji Fukunaga or a Haruki Murakami or even a David Mitchell, lol.


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